


Little Pearl

by branloaf



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I can’t help the Spanish princess vibes in some of this I’m sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branloaf/pseuds/branloaf
Summary: Prince Arthur Tudor and Princess Catherine of Aragon finally consummated their marriage only weeks before Arthur’s death. To her luck, she conceives, however when she delivers a daughter instead of the desired son, Catherine must fight for her daughter’s right to the unstable Tudor throne.
Relationships: Catherine of Aragon/Arthur Tudor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	1. Hope

**7 February 1502  
Shrovetide  
Ludlow Castle **

I cannot stand it here. Everyone assures me the sun will come soon and bring with it warmer weather, but I know it will not be like Spain. It will never be like Spain. I will never be able to speak freely again without making the effort of translating almost every word into this difficult tongue, nor go about my normal personal routine without being sneered at, for that is not how we do things in England! I have known of my role as future Queen of England since I was a babe and understood what it meant for me, alas it does not mean I shall enjoy every moment of it. 

For the most part, it is my husband, Arthur, who has made this new life more bearable, and for the most part, I believe him to have done very well in his new role as husband. If not for one thing, I would say that so far, despite our slowly lessening language barrier, he has most certainly been a perfect husband. However, after three months of marriage, we have not yet shared a marriage bed as a husband and wife should, and so I impatiently wait for the day where Arthur will come to my bed and consummate our union, so that I may conceive an heir for this new dynasty struggling to secure itself in this country. 

Of course, our court here on the Welsh border believes our marriage to already be true and consummated, and every week I must endure the invasive questioning from my duenna and my ladies about my monthly courses, and my breasts, and my stomach; although as Princess of Wales, I must accept that my body is a matter of state importance, and I must answer their questions and tell them, no, I am not with child, and although I have not bled, I know it is not for a child in my womb, as I have not bled regularly since the death of my brother which brought on a melancholia that has afflicted my womb since. And despite the certainty of the lack of an heir in my belly, they do not doubt our union, for Arthur, the spoilt, teenage boy that he is, boasts weekly about our nights supposedly spent together, acting as though the frustration we have shared on those nights does not exist, and we are only living in wedded bliss. 

I, of course, do not contradict his words. I could not do that to the poor boy and his ego. The ego that shows its face when he cannot perform his duty as a husband and curls up turned away from me in the bed, sulking in his disappointment. It did not take long for me to fear that I was the source of his failure, however his frustration is never targeted at me, only at himself. 

The focus is taken off our marriage today, however, as tomorrow is Shrove Tuesday, and the court is buzzing with excitement preparing for the feasting and joyfulness we will experience tomorrow. The last of our red meat and dairy is ready to be consumed tomorrow, with Arthur requesting additional portions for him to dine on tonight, “for added virility when I visit my wife tonight,” he boasts to everyone. I act sheepish at his words, knowing full well that his words too are just an act, and that when he is delivered to my rooms tonight, we will lie together in awkward silence, barely a word spoken between us. 

In the evening, I sit at my desk, staring into the mirror set upon it, Lady Margaret Pole standing behind me brushing my long red-gold hair which she has just freed from under my headdress. She is warning me that I may be surprised tomorrow to see that the final day of Shrovetide may not be as I have grown to know it in Spain, and I share stories of my memories of Shrovetide as a child, when the holiday was new and freshly restored to our rightfully Christian land. We speak in Latin, Lady Pole making every effort to adapt to my different pronunciations, so that I may understand her easier. 

We are interrupted when the door opens and Arthur enters, accompanied by Lady Pole’s husband and Arthur’s chamberlain, Sir Richard Pole. I rise from my seat and curtsey to my husband, Sir Richard bowing in greeting to me. 

Margaret steps forward into my view and curtseys before joining her husband, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “We shall bid you goodnight, then.” With a final bow of their heads, the pair depart, walking together with the appearance of the perfect couple. Theirs too, was an arranged marriage, and I pray that one day Arthur and I shall look the same together. 

There is an awkward silence as we wait for my ladies to exit my chamber, one which only continues after the door is closed and we are left alone. 

“I wasn’t lying today.” Arthur says suddenly. “About eating more red meat for… for us.” 

In three months you have barely touched me, what difference will some meat make? I mutter under my breath in Spanish as I take off my robe and lay it over the chair. I see Arthur’s eyebrows narrow in annoyance at my hidden words, “what?”

“I thought you were just finding an excuse to eat more,” I say lamely in English, hoping he will not question the translation and doubt my honesty.

He doesn’t. His mouth switches from it’s annoyed frown to a boyish smile. “Well, yes, that too, of course.” He mirrors my actions, shedding himself of his robe and kicking off his slippers. “But I did mean what I said. I pray it will help us.” 

Slowly, I cross myself, “as do I.” It is well known that consuming red meat will contribute to one’s primal desires, and while I am sure that Arthur was thinking more of his stomach than his loins when he requested such, I cannot help but take him seriously. This marriage should have been consummated months ago, and the more time that passes, the more worried I grow that his paranoid father, King Henry, will decide I am not a suitable wife for his son and ship me back to Spain to replace me with a woman who can give him a grandson. After all, Arthur was born only eight months after the king’s marriage; I am quite sure that man would have cast aside his York bride for another if she could not conceive an heir fast enough for him. No… he needs me and the alliance with my parents. Surely he would never do such a thing? 

Arthur approaches me and quickly, as if worried he will hesitate and change his mind if he doesn’t hurry, he pushes my chemise off my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, the warm hand he uses to grab one of my breasts doing little to prevent the chills overcoming my body at my nakedness. 

I stand in silence as he uses my body to arouse himself, unsure of what is to follow. Sometimes he will abruptly end his fondling in frustration and slither into bed without a word; other times it is not until he is hovering over me in bed that he rolls over and pretends to immediately fall asleep. But there is something different about it this time; I can almost see a determination in his eyes that was never there before. 

It is therefore to my complete and utter surprise that he pushes me over to the bed, pressing himself up against me. I feel a firmness against my thigh, and he leans down to kiss me sloppily as he yanks up his nightgown. 

I am so stunned by what is happening, by Arthur's sudden burst of passion and energy, that I forget all the words of my duenna and all the warnings from the married women who have spoken of what it means to lay with a man. And so I cannot help but let out a whimper as he enters me, my face turning to a grimace.

Arthur pulls away immediately, panic crossing his features. "Have I hurt you?"

Yes. That is the clear answer. But I know that I must bear it and conceive. That is my duty as a woman. How I feel about it is not important. 

I shake my head. "Tis all right. Do what you must." 

Hesitantly, Arthur gives me a brief nod and I grit my teeth as he, with enough drive in him to continue, pushes himself into me again. The sensation between my legs is now more uncomfortable than painful, yet I count the seconds, waiting for it to end, and soon I learn that the ladies’ gossip was right, and the discomfort is replaced with a most pleasant feeling. But then it is over, and Arthur is awkwardly sitting back on his knees, his face flushed. I ignore my body’s desire for him to keep going, and squeeze my legs shut, hoping to trap his seed inside me so I may conceive. 

“I have not hurt you too much, have I?” He asks me, to which I just shake my head. 

Arthur moves beside me, shuffling under the layers of bedding. More silence follows. We have waited months for this to happen; now what are we to do? As Arthur caringly pulls the bedding over my bare skin, I ask the question filling my mind. 

“Why tonight? Of all nights?”

His eyes turn away from me. “I thought it best to do so now before Lent restricts us further.” 

I know there is certainly more to it than that. I may not have known my husband for long, but our language barrier has led me to be well tuned in to his physical cues, and I can tell there is something he is not sharing with me. I want to ask him again and try to get the reasons out of him. 

“Then I pray I have conceived.” I say instead.

**29 March 1502  
Easter  
Ludlow Castle **

Following the rules of the church and my husband’s grandmother, Arthur was no longer delivered to my chambers once a week as we observed the holy fasting season. Although we did not share the news of our recent coupling, for the sake of consistency and Arthur’s poor ego, I think some had noticed the difference between us. They of course did not say anything to us, but I am sure I heard whispers. 

As Lent passed, I sat in doubt over the condition of my womb, praying almost constantly that soon I would find a sign that my marriage will be fruitful and I will give Arthur a son. This time, I was faced with true uncertainty when I was once again asked if I think myself to be with child; that was until I bled for the first time in months, and accepted that there was no child in my womb, and Arthur and I must wait until the season passes to try to conceive again. 

Then, in the middle of March, the queasiness in my belly begins, and I grow doubtful in my certainty. At first, I believed it to be a result of my fasting, however it persisted even after I lessened my strict observance of Lent. And only recently did I recall that my last bleeding was light - something I did not at first question - and that a woman may sometimes bleed soon after she conceives. With this realisation, I was overcome with delight; despite the wait for our union, God smiled upon us and had already put a child in my womb, and the day after Easter, I weep with joy on my knees on the floor of the castle church, giving every praise to God and Our Lady for their graciousness towards me and my husband. Lady Pole discovered me in my state of worship, and questioned my tear stained face, to which I confessed my news, and swore her to secrecy before I tell Arthur myself tomorrow. 

However, this morning as I am prepared for the day, ready to tell Arthur of our child, I am suddenly overcome with an unyielding sense of dread that I cannot explain. I order all my ladies away in Spanish, my voice so loud with panic that even my English speaking ladies retreat in shock of my outburst. 

“Your Grace? What’s the matter?” María de Salinas is speaking to me, returning to her native Spanish in what I assume is an attempt to calm me, but it is not working. Something terrible is going to happen and nobody can stop it. 

“I’m going to die!” I cry out in terror, unable to control the wave of hysterical tears that hits me. My legs give out from underneath me, and the next thing I know, I am on the ground, María holding me up. I can hear someone calling out to tell Sir Richard and to fetch the physician, but they cannot help me. Nobody can. Nothing can stop the terrible things that are to come. 

I am carried back to my bed, still half dressed. María pulls the bedding over me, adjusting the pillows.

“My baby will die,” I mumble helplessly in my delirium. “He will die.” 

She does not question my words; she is not even aware that I am with child. “No, Catalina,” she murmurs soothingly. “Your child is well. Tis God’s will you bear a Tudor heir.” 

Lady Pole soon enters, demanding to know what is wrong, just as I feel my face begin to burn, and my panic changes to fever. She approaches me, her hand pressing tenderly against my forehead, where small beads of sweat have begun to appear. The relief from the coolness of her hand goes away just as quickly as it came as she pulls away in shock. 

“Dear Lord, where is the physician? She has caught a fever!” 

He is rushed to me, poking and prodding at me and observing my now obvious feverish state. As he quietly discusses my condition with Lady Pole, I stare off in their direction, trying to comprehend what they are talking about. The physician leaves, and through my delirium Margaret Pole’s fearful face stares back at me, and I find myself forming the words. 

“What is happening to me?” 

“Keep good distance from the princess,” Margaret orders. “We can not risk it spreading.” Risk what spreading? She comes closer, and I have my answer. 

“The physician believes you may have the sweat, Your Grace.” She takes a step back, clearly scared of taking ill with it too. “The illness King Henry brought with him to England. I pray you will recover.” 

The dread returns, but this time I know it’s justified. “Am I going to die?” 

I see the faintest tremble of her lip, her eyes hopeless. She doesn’t know… and she quite possibly thinks it likely. 

My day is spent with growing fever, delirium and fatigue. I mumble utter nonsense, and despite Lady Pole’s stern warnings, María remains by my side, sponging my forehead, and whispering calming words a mother would use to soothe her ill child. The physician gives me worthless remedy after remedy, some making me feel even worse, and I fear the effects some may have on my child. I try to inform him of my condition, and I think he manages to understand my incoherent rambling, altering some of his remedies for me. They still do not make a difference, and by nightfall, my fever has still not broken, and I can vaguely hear Arthur’s voice outside my door, although I try to ignore it, putting it down to another feverish hallucination. 

But then he is beside me, stroking my hair, apologising for not being with me today, and I am sure that it is really him. I begin to cry, overcome with helplessness, sure that all hope is lost. 

“Your fever will break soon and you will be well,” he soothes. “I am sure of it.” 

Arthur is right. My fever finally breaks a few hours later and I drift off into a restless sleep.

**30 March 1502  
Easter  
Ludlow Castle **

I am still weak when I wake, but when I remember the child nestled in my womb, I throw off my blankets in a surge of energy, checking in a panic that my fever did not push the child out of me and I am not lying in a pool of my own blood. Luckily the linen is stained with dried sweat, not blood, and I relax against the pillows in relief, my hand protectively resting on my belly. 

My ladies quickly summon the physician, who assures me that I am to recover, and should thank God for his mercy, for very few recover from this English Sweat. I ask Lady Pole to bring me my husband, and everyone is dismissed from my chamber as he enters, kneeling beside my bed, visible joy on his face at my expected recovery. 

“Arthur,” my voice is hoarse, but the excitement in it can’t be cloaked. “I am with child.” 

His face lights up. “You are? Even through your fever?” I give a weak nod. 

“Then God’s true will has been shown to us! For even though we have only spent one night as man and wife, and you were taken with the sweat, God still blesses us with a child.” He kisses my hand, tears brimming in his eyes. 

Underneath his happiness, I can sense fear, but I decide not to question him on it. I understand the source of his fear for I share it; I pray my encounter with the Sweat will not harm our child. 

“With your permission, I will write to my parents in London and inform them of their expected grandchild.” I nod my permission, and he rushes off to write a letter immediately, telling me he will be back soon. Only a few minutes later he is back in my chamber, face red from exertion. The poor boy must have sprinted to his rooms to send off a letter to his parents as quickly as possible. It does not bother me of course, and he rests his head on the bed beside me, gazing up at me adoringly, staying with me for the rest of the day as I slowly recover. 

Two days later, I feel well enough to resume my duties as Princess of Wales. The news of my pregnancy is slowly spreading throughout our court, and I am ready to confirm the gossip and announce the King is soon to have a grandchild. 

Unfortunately, the day could not have gone any further from what I planned. As my hair is being plaited and readied for my headdress, the door opens and María is requested to speak with someone outside the door. I peer in that direction curiously, wondering what my friend could be needed for. She re-enters a few moments later, face grave. 

“Your Grace… Prince Arthur has caught the Sweat.”


	2. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's condition worsens, resulting in a great loss for all of England.

**1 April 1502  
Easter  
Ludlow Castle**

I am sure Sir Richard sent a messenger to me to keep me at a distance from the sickness so I do not take it again, however his efforts are futile, as I immediately rush out of my chambers, hurrying towards my husband's rooms.

There are two guards stationed at the door to Arthur's private chamber, barring me entrance. Lady Pole exits the inner room, not surprised to see me. Her fear for Arthur is visibly mingled with annoyance at my desire to see him, and I am reminded of the argument I thought I dreamed up in my fever of Arthur arguing outside my room. Perhaps she was trying to convince him to leave then too. 

"You can't see him, Your Grace. The risk is too great." 

"I have only just recovered myself, surely I have an immunity to the fever?" 

Lady Pole shakes her head. "We know so little about this malady, we don't know if you are safe." 

I step forward and Margaret holds up her hands as a barrier to stop me. "It is my fault he is ill!" I cry. "I was the first to take the Sweat! I must be there with him."

"Tis not your fault." She assures me. "As I said, we know so little. We do not know where it even comes from, nor how it is spread." 

I desire nothing more than to push past Lady Pole and the guards and through the door to my husband, but I decide it smart not to throw a childish tantrum and instead straighten my back and reach for the rosary hanging from my waist.

"Then I will be praying for my husband in the chapel. Please, Lady Pole, will you inform me of any changes in his health?" Relieved at my submission, she nods her head and I depart for the chapel. 

I am kneeling on the cold floor before the small statue of Christ on the cross for hours, murmuring prayers in both Latin and Spanish, my fingers slowly beginning to ache as I grip the rosary beads I feed through them. The blue and red shadows coming through the stained glass windows have shifted considerably by the time I hear footsteps approaching from behind and I raise my head, looking behind me to see María de Salinas. 

I rise to my feet, expecting her to have news for me about Arthur’s health. As I stand, a sudden faintness overcomes me, blurring my vision and making me lose my balance. María rushes up to me, holding my arm to keep me steady. 

“Your Grace, are you well? It is after midday, you should break your fast and eat something.”

I shake my head, closing my eyes as I wait for the world to steady itself. “No, I will not eat today.”

“You must stay strong for your child, Your Grace.”

“I get my strength from the Lord.” The dizziness now having passed, I begin to exit the chapel, María trailing after me.

“How is my husband, the prince?”

“I have not heard any word of his condition, my lady.”

My heart sinks. Is that good or bad? Would they not have told me if he improved? And surely the same if he worsened?

Annoyed with the lack of updates, I rush across to the main castle and up to Arthur’s rooms where I am met with the same guards blocking me from crossing into his chamber. I try to push past them, but they step closer to each other, creating an effective shield against the door. 

“Let me pass! I must see my husband!” My annoyance grows to frustration as the guards do not respond or move, only shrugging me off and gently pushing me back when I attempt to shove them out the way.

The doors open, and I take the opportunity to try and get through, but Margaret Pole pushes me back, exiting the room. “Your Grace, I told you you cannot see him.” 

“Please tell me how he is. If you will not allow me to see him, I will at least have that.”

Margaret takes a moment before she responds. “He is not well. The physician says if he makes it through the night, he should recover. But he is worsening.”

A sob escapes me before I can stop it. “This is all my fault. Oh Lord, have mercy upon me. I beg you let me see him, Lady Pole!”

“I won’t allow it, Princess. I will not risk you becoming ill again.”

In a moment of impulse, I rush past Margaret, catching her off guard, and make it into Arthur's rooms before someone can grab me and drag me back out. I stand a few feet away from his bed, so that when Margaret storms in after me demanding I leave, I argue that I am keeping my distance from him. 

"Catherine?" Arthur, lying in a pool of sweat, turns his head in my direction.

"I am here, Arthur." 

His attention quickly turns away from me as he frantically looks around the room in his feverish panic. "I'm thirsty." 

Without thinking, I approach his bedside to pour a cup of ale from the jug on the table. Margaret comes up to me and tries to pry me away from him, urging me to keep my distance, but I ignore her and hand him the ale which he sips slowly. 

"Leave us." He demands once he has finished the drink. After a moment of hesitation - especially from Margaret Pole - the few people in the room attending to him bow and leave. 

With great effort, Arthur wrestles his arm out from under his covers and rests it on my abdomen. Even through all my layers of clothing, I can faintly feel the heat radiating off his skin. 

"Keep him safe for me." 

The implication behind his words causes a lump in my throat, and I grasp his hand over my belly. "We'll keep him safe." My voice breaks as I speak. 

"No. I'm dying, Catherine. The future of England rests in your womb." 

I drop to my knees, one hand still grasping his, the other stroking his hair. "Don't talk like that. I recovered and so will you."

"Edward." He mumbles. I can't tell if he heard what I said, or whether or not he's having some kind of hallucination from the fever.

"Edward?"

"Name him Edward." He groans as he shifts uncomfortably. "Thirsty." 

I give him some more ale and wait for him to gulp it down. "I'll name him Edward." I tell him. "Prince Edward." 

He nods, his eyes closing. "Now go. I can't have you risking our Edward any longer." 

A tear slips down my cheek and I hastily wipe it away before he opens his eyes. I lean down and kiss his forehead before I rise. Overwhelmed with what is happening, I can't think of anything to say to him, so I simply turn and make my way towards the door. As I do so, I hear Arthur quietly say the words, "te quiero, Catalina. Dios te bendiga."

I rush out of the room, ignoring those waiting outside the door, not wanting to expose the sour mix of love and sorrow swelling within me, about to burst. The unexpected Spanish words of love and blessing overwhelm me, and I hurry back to my rooms, collapsing onto my bed, no longer able to suppress my fear. 

I lay weeping on my bed until my physician comes to visit me and forces me to eat, insisting I must with my still recovering health and my unborn child. It is a brief distraction from my growing despair, my only solace afterwards being to kneel on the floor of the Round Chapel, and to not only pray for my husband and my son, but to also beseech God to grant me the strength to persevere through these times of uncertainty, just as I did during my long journey here. 

The rest of the day drags on. My desperation for it to end grows, as if tomorrow I will wake and all this will have been a horrible dream. Finally retiring to bed after the sky's orange glow has changed to the darkness of night, I lie awake, unable to sleep. 

After hours of tossing and turning, I drift off into a restless sleep, my dreams a mess of nonsensical scenes about Arthur, where he speaks to me in garbled Spanish, referring to his illness as if it is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. 

I continue to wake periodically, my broken sleep disturbed for the final time when I open my eyes to the dim gold light of the rising sun entering through the cracks in the closed window. With this sign of daylight, I want to rush to Arthur and learn of any updates to his condition. The fatigue and queasiness taking over my body compels me to do otherwise however, and instead I lay motionless, staring into the fire that crackles its final flames until María enters.

"How is he?" I ask. My mouth is dry, making my voice crack and my mouth sticky.

"I have not heard anything, Your Grace." 

"Then still he lives," I whisper. "I am sure of it." 

"I have faith he will recover." María tells me as she begins to lay out my undergarments for the morning on the chair at my desk. "I do not see why God would send you all this way only for you to become a widow so soon." 

I force myself out of bed, asleep on my feet and with a whirlpool in my stomach. "I need to bathe." 

"Yes, my lady." María curtseys and exits the chamber. I can faintly hear the door of my presence chamber close when I suddenly hear it again moments later. Wondering if I'm becoming delirious, my confusion is resolved soon after when the door to my inner chamber opens, and Margaret Pole enters.

By the pain stricken expression on her face, I already know what she is to tell me. I nod my head and greet her, keeping my royal composure as I wait for the dreaded news.

"Your Grace," Margaret says. "Arthur, he… he is dead."

A sob shakes through my body that I cannot control, and despite my certainty of her words before she spoke them, once they have been uttered into the damp, dark air of this castle, I can't believe them. 

"Are you sure he is not just sleeping?" I whisper, my voice cracking through the softness of it in desperation, even though I know how foolish I sound.

Margaret knows it too, and doesn't answer me. She only looks at me with pity, masking her own grief as she has learned to do so well. "I am sorry, Princess." 

Working to mask my own also, I straighten my posture, my jaw clenched tight as I fight the tears struggling to break free. 

"Thank you for informing me, Lady Pole. You should be with your husband now. I am sure he will be of great comfort to you at this time. This is a great loss to all of us." 

I imagine that to Margaret, I could not look less of a princess at this moment; sleep deprived, in my dirty undergarments, faced stained with the tears I couldn't stop. If I were not the Princess of Wales - dowager Princess of Wales - I am sure she would stay and comfort me in my clear state of distress. However, she accepts my words, and quickly leaves the room. 

When María returns, I am curled up on top of the bed, no longer suppressing my sobs. Presumably informed of Arthur's death already, she rushes up to me, ignoring all formality, and lays beside me. 

"Oh, Catalina. My Princess. He is in paradise now. And you shall pass on his legacy with the boy in your womb." She murmurs her words, in Spanish, softly in my ear as she strokes her hand gently over my bedraggled hair.

A few hours later, I finally bathe and tidy myself up, looking far more regal than the grieving girl sobbing on her bed earlier. I wear my finest black gown, with the details on the sleeves and bodice modest enough to be suitable as a mourning gown. María insists I should stay in my rooms today and deal with it all tomorrow, but my protests are stronger, and so we move to the Great Hall, where many of our court are gathered, processing our loss. It is a sea of black, everyone already donning mourning robes for their late prince. 

Passing through the courtiers bowing to me and offering their sympathies, I approach Lady Pole. She nods solemnly. 

"We are about to go to mass. For Arthur."

As I follow the crowd to the Round Chapel, I am in shock at the number of people attending the mass. It somehow makes me feel guilty, as if I am responsible for the sorrow everyone now feels. Arthur was so beloved by everyone who ever met him, from his closest companions to the lowest of servants, and now I feel responsible for his loss. 

Crossing the bailey back to the main castle after the mass, the sky is darker, a heavy layer of clouds having passed over, a few dark patches on the stonework showing it had tried to rain. A gust of wind blows around us, whipping up the veils of the women's headwear and I hug my arms around my chest. 

Stepping inside, a maid places a cloak over my shoulders which I tug at. I return to my rooms in silence, not wanting to speak to anyone about Arthur or when I am to go to London. In my chamber, the fire is freshly stocked and burning intensely, and the candles are all lit, filling the room with an orange glow brighter than the gloomy light outside.

The thought of writing a letter to my parents briefly crosses my mind but I decide against it for now, not wanting to write of a loss that is still so raw. A knock at the door distracts me from my thoughts, and with my permission, María enters.

"Your Grace. Can I do anything?" She sounds unsure, as if the offer itself is beyond foolish. 

"What will become of me now?" I sit on my bed, facing away from María, my eyes instead fixed on the window and outside at the gloomy sky. "My sister Isabel was crippled by grief and wished to take up the veil… and my sister Margaret brought forth a dead daughter in her grief. Is that to happen to me now? Will my sorrow push my child from my womb and kill me too?" 

"No, Your Grace!" María cries hastily, "do not think such awful thoughts! You carry England's heir in your womb, and he will be a strong boy, who you will raise as a true prince of England and Castile and Aragon." 

Her words provide little comfort in my current state of despair and I shoo her from the room, telling her I wish to be alone. My mind draws back to my own family in Castile. Isabel; widowed and forced into another marriage when she only wanted to devote herself to God. A marriage which killed her when she died giving birth to Portugal and Spain’s heir who has since died too. My brother Juan, dying so young when his future held so much promise, just as Arthur’s did. And his widow, so devastated with her loss she lost her child too. Even Juana has had her share of misfortune, especially now as her position of heir to Aragon is disputed. Thinking of my last sister, María, I pray she does not meet the same fate as the rest of us, that her new marriage does not result in heartbreak, and the heir in her belly is born healthy.

I am compelled to pray, so I move to my prie-dieu, located close to my bed, and grab my rosary, beginning the prayers of the Rosary. Reaching the end of the chain and crossing myself, I leave the beads dangling from my fingers, redirecting my prayer towards my family. 

Rising from my prie-dieu hours later, I notice that between the greyness of the clouds, the purple light of dusk peeks through. The sky is the same colour when a message arrives from London a few days later, as well as a litter to transport me. 

“His Grace the King will be providing lodgings for you at Richmond Palace.” Sir Richard tells me. His shoulders are painfully bare, the collar I usually saw resting over them signifying his place in my husband’s council missing, leaving nothing but the black material, made even darker through my veil. 

“Why is there a litter?” I ask. “I can ride.”

“‘Twas sent by My Lady the King’s Mother. She does not want to risk you riding whilst you are with child.” 

“My mother delivered me in the midst of war. Riding a few days in a little rain will not harm me or my child.”

“Her Grace insisted. And so I must insist that you do as she says.” Recalling all I know of the King’s mother, Lady Margaret’s words are sensible, and yet I continue to refuse. I am desperate to have some control in this myriad of chaos; I will take it any way I can.

"I will ride. And I will not hear any other debate on the matter. When do we leave?" 

Margaret's lips purse together in annoyance. "Tomorrow morning," Sir Richard tells me. "Most of the household will remain here a while longer, so your belongings can be sent to London after the funeral." 

"Is… is Arthur to be buried in London?" 

"I don't know, Your Grace." 

I nod. "Very well. Please excuse me, I will prepare to leave for London."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a bit to write the end of this chapter, so I hope you didn't find it too rushed or clunky! And my apologies for the long gap between the first and second chapters being posted.


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